


Vigilance

by wheatleyandrews



Series: Greendreams [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatleyandrews/pseuds/wheatleyandrews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bran paces ceaselessly, hobbling over his still-unyielding legs, forcing himself to remember what ground felt like under his footfall. He was slow and awkward, as though riding an untrained pony though fresh river mud. But all the gods be damned, he thought, if I'm not strong enough for this, I can never be strong enough for him.</p><p>He prefers the sound of his own maligned footsteps over the chilling whine of Jojen's struggling breath, prefers the sight his feet slipping gracelessly across the torchlit tile to the dark, sickly circles below his lover's eyes. But still, the thoughts creep inside him like cockroaches, tracking filthy, guilty dirt over his mind with every rise of Jojen's chest.</p><p>Bran's lips are pursed with quiet fury, the silk dancing under the dying torchlight, every deep vibration of Jojen's wheezing snores slamming into him with the force of a tidal wave. He feels needles behind his eyes, his weary mind crying out in anguish. As the last embers of the torch perish, he slips beneath the silk, freckled and pale in the darkness as he bears his skin to feel the fever warmth of Jojen's, to seal their bodies together and sponge the sickness from him like soft, wet cloth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vigilance

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to 'Eyelids' in the 'Greendreams' AU. Made to fill two prompts from my loving Tumblr followers: one for some hurt/comfort Brojen and another for some tooth-rotting fluff. Don't worry. It's all very happy in the end.

Bran grips his cane in a stranglehold, white knuckled as he paces the cramped Hand's bedchamber at the base of the tower, with only the feeblest fingers of sunlight piercing through the blizzard that stretched into its fifth day. There on the bed, beneath the many-colored soft silks and linens, Jojen wheezed, his face caught in an unseeing glare as he struggled to pull in what little air he could through his bright red nose. If not for the rosy peaks of his ears and nose, Jojen would be whiter than the snow itself, crippled by the whispering drafts that snuck like rats through the thousand-year-old bricks.  
  
Bran paces ceaselessly, hobbling over his still-unyielding legs, forcing himself to remember what ground felt like under his footfall. He was slow and awkward, as though riding an untrained pony though fresh river mud. _But all the gods be damned,_ he thought, _if I'm not strong enough for this, I can never be strong enough for him._  
  
He prefers the sound of his own maligned footsteps over the chilling whine of Jojen's struggling breath, prefers the sight his feet slipping gracelessly across the torchlit tile to the dark, sickly circles below his lover's eyes. But still, the thoughts creep inside him like cockroaches, tracking filthy, guilty dirt over his mind with every rise of Jojen's chest.  
  
"Fuck me to hell," he finally curses, "Fuck me to all the hells, the seven new ones and the countless old ones too." The cane falls with a clatter to the ground as his voice rises, and shaking with frustration, Bran's weak legs give way and he alights on the bed. His lips are pursed with quiet fury, the silk dancing under the dying torchlight, every deep vibration of Jojen's wheezing snores slamming into him with the force of a tidal wave.  
  
 _He's dying. He must be._ Bran can't stop the tears in his eyes. _I couldn't keep him safe._ The icy draft pours over the tears as they roll down his cheeks, chilling him to the core. Bran tugs at the slippery silk to pull himself closer to the strawheaded Hand, and caresses his neck with the tips of his fingers. Now the tidal waves fall short, and the crannogman's steady heartbeat slows down Bran's own heartbeat as he feels his worry drain away. Bran can't help but blush in the growing darkness. _They have every reason to call me the boy king._  
  
Bran feels needles behind his eyes, his weary mind crying out in anguish. As the last embers of the torch perish, he slips beneath the silk, freckled and pale in the darkness as he bears his skin to feel the fever warmth of Jojen's, to seal their bodies together and sponge the sickness from him like soft, wet cloth.  
  
He traces a single finger across the padded curves of Jojen's chest, tangling in the downy golden hair that lays over his abdomen. "They still aren't sure what's wrong with you," Bran whispers as he feels his eyes filling again. "All the best maesters of the castle have searched you from tip to toe, and still they give me no better answer than to force that water and honey down your throat and call you again in the morning." He sighs and wraps his arms tightly around Jojen's weak, narrow frame, nestling his nose in the small of Jojen's neck, where his head hung limply against the pillows.  
  
"I will always be here for you."  
  
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]  
  
The lukewarm breath of late summer flows lazily through the window thrown hastily open. The sunset pours in mottled through the green leaves tinged with orange rashes, shadows gliding silently along the thick, brown blanket where Summer nuzzles beside the young brownhaired boy, whose chest rises in jittering shakes as he sleeps.

Bran's mind snaps into clarity as he stands in the doorway of his old, familiar bedchamber, staring deep into the boy his instincts told him was himself from almost nine years prior: crippled, helpless, bedridden, and to every maester that came through and looked him up and down in a moment's huff, dying.  
  
Bran feels a pair of nimble hands snake around his waist. "Where are we, love. Winterfell?" Jojen whispers into Bran's close ear, setting his chin onto the boy king's shoulder.  
  
Bran gasps and turns to wrap Jojen in his embrace. His eyes, dry a moment ago, flood over into the soft, well-worn cloth draped over the Hand's collarbone. "I missed you," he whispers, knitting his hands together to grasp the crannogman tighter against him. He takes in every nook and cranny of his lover's face, full of color and vibrance and the grime of life.  
  
Jojen chuckles and musses a hand in the dark brown Stark hair. "It seems I've been gone too long," he muses, placing a kiss on the crown of Bran's head.  
  
"Three days, Jojen." Bran lets his vice grip loosen and pulls away, draping his arms around his narrow waist. "You couldn't give us a sign?"  
  
Jojen scoffs but relents to the pleading glitter in his lover's eye. "Once the sight has you, it won't push you away until you've seen what it wants you to, and it always comes as a suprise visitor, a wandering vagabond of sorts. I've been here for seven nights, Bran." He kisses the king's forehead and smiles. "Be glad that the time passes faster on your side."  
  
Bran chuckles, but Summer's waking whimpers snap him back to the reality of the greendream. "We're in my old bedchamber," he says, weaseling from Jojen's draping arms and turning to his slumbering younger self. "This tower collapsed when the G--" Theon's name stuck in his throat "-- _Ironborn_ burned Winterfell after its sacking."  
  
Jojen nods and pads over the worn stones to the bedside. "Your mother is gone, to King's Landing," he explains, mussing his hand intangibly through the last red patches in Summer's grey fur. He glances to Bran, who nods in respect as Jojen traces the bloodstained coat, understanding. "Quite brave, they both are." He smiles to his lover in the doorway. "Seven long nights of watching Lady Catelyn track your every last breath, watching her knit that talisman to the new gods, taking barely anything to eat or drink... my respect for her is infinite."  
  
Bran chuckles as he joins Jojen on the bedside. "Perhaps the sight wants you to help Meera and I raise our little royal baby, with my mother as your guide."  
  
Jojen smirks. "The sight has informed me that those days are a long, long way off. It seems you just can't find as much pleasure in my sister as you do me." He winks to the elder Bran, who returns the smirk with cheeks stained red.  
  
"Such talk in a child's bedchamber, Lord Reed. I shall not have it in my castle." Bran cups the soft curve of Jojen's jaw and lets his hand linger.  
  
"I missed you, King Bran." Jojen lets his voice drop deep as he takes Bran's hand in his and kisses it tenderly. "But the sight has placed you here with me now, and there's nothing I've ever wished more for." He laces his hands in the brown locks and tugs Bran in, kissing him deeply as the last tinges of red trace through the leaves to dance along with them as they found solace in their final, perfect touch. The warmth of late summer slips away, and, eyes closed, one room of Winterfell melts into another.  
  
The docile wolf stirs atop the blankets as a sudden, clear breath broke through the jittery wheezes and filled the little lord's lungs. Only one word escapes his chapped, pale lips. "Summer." The direwolf licks the little lord fully awake, eyes dancing confusedly around the familiar room. Something's wrong. _It's almost as though someone was just..._ he shakes his head. _Of course not. That's ridiculous._ He sighs to himself, but then stares in disbelief as his legs refuse to budge.  
And when King Bran alights with Jojen by his side, kissing him haphazardly and passionately as winter howls beyond the walls, the same feeling rushes back to him. "So what has the sight taught you this time?" The whisper slips through Bran's lips between heavy caresses.  
  
In the morning sunlight that sifts, tinted blue-grey, through the snowdrift, Jojen's grassy green eyes are strewn among his straw-colored hair, like the first bright green shoots to return from the dead grass of winter gone by. In his every breath Bran feels life, love, the coming spring. "Vigilance," little grandfather whispers wisely. "What patient vigilance can do."


End file.
